Okay, stop thinking about the ball and listen. These questions you’re asking: Is the Bald Man on the outsides of this here fence, and we are in? Or: Is it us? Are we the ones who are out?
It’s all the same, Squirt.
The truth is there would not even be a Bald Man there, outside us, if there were not at the same time, and already, a Bald Man here, inside us. And were there not a Bald Man in our heads, there would be no Bald Man out beyond that gate and on that grass yonder.
What is outside is in. What is inside is out.
Nothing external matters save that is shows you to your’n own self.
Your relationship with the Bald Man, in all its conflicts and complications, face licks, chest sits, and angry scoldings, dog hunting, rope pulls, and ball throwing, is only there to help you understand your’n own self better.
A photopoem by Kaiya.
Okay, I reckon’ you might could
have the pee stream
get to that Echinacea yonder.
But I’ve seen your goofy ass try
to hit my spots and your
aim is for shit, Bubba.
I have skirted the blotted shadows of a scarcely
skirted madness, circled the sodded
walls of a boarded-up
sadness, come out spotted, stained, shaken
wet, only to stick my head into the maddening hiss of
a whirling weedwacker line because I
felt only the urge to do it &
nothing else—blind, led as galaxy
pulling sun, in turn pulling planets, in turn
holding each of us to our tenets
words are nothing, and still
there is nothing
I have forgotten
every sentence I have ever
assembled and yet I’ve somehow
remembered how it felt to have culled it
but I only feel when I wag
or touch, when I bray
or cuff, when I fly or
fuck, the primitive
skull empty of thought
I know you think you’ve
rolled in a stink like
but this foulness here
will knock back your
Leave you unmoored.
I have forgotten my name.
And how to navigate a conversation.
I have lost all accountability for
my anal glands.
Recently, I went to Israel and performed live a piece I wrote for the MOVING WORDS project for ARTS By The People. Aside from the trip being fantastic for all kinds of personal reasons, I was honored to have the opportunity to debut the animation and perform it live at the 2017 Animix Festival in Tel Aviv.
I don’t think I’ve posted anything on Mother’s Day since my mom died. I don’t feel like verifying this fact, even though I easily could. What I do know is that in the past I’ve felt bitter about this day. I’ve felt bitter about it for reasons that go beyond my mother no longer being here. And maybe the fact that I felt it necessary and good to post something today had something to do with healing. Maybe the fact that I went ahead and took out her letters and her photographs today, scanned some of them in, put some words to page — something “new” — maybe this all has something to do with healing.
If you have read THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION please go to Amazon or Goodreads and review it. It’s Friday afternoon, after all. What better thing to do?!?
I’m not gonna lie, my inspire meter has been resting on “E” for the past few months. My dog brain has been in need of dem bones. Well, last week, I found a big bag of ’em in the form of the distinctly venerable (yet delightfully irreverent) journal, Atticus Review. I’m happy and excited to tell y’all that I’ll be the new Editor-in-Chief of that exceptional wardrobe of words, and it’s got my inspire meter back on the big “F” where it belongs. (#notaeuphemism)
This is the Texas Book Tour for This Is Not a Confession. June 4th through June 7th. Three cities. 450 Miles. The first stop was Austin at Book People. The only thing that could've made this better for me is if somehow Willie Nelson's name could've been on the marquee...